


The Best Bad Things

by TroubleIWant



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad coping mechanisms, Drug Use, Frottage, M/M, canon divirgent, or something, underage-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 16:16:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4528668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TroubleIWant/pseuds/TroubleIWant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fuck,” Stiles moans again, squirming desperately against Derek’s crotch. “You gotta - gotta give me something.” He does his best to slide a hand into the back of Derek’s underwear, and gets far enough that his middle finger brushes the base of his spine.</p><p>“I am,” Derek says, reaching back to grab Stiles by the wrist. He deftly pins both of the kid’s arms above his head and grins, all teeth.<br/>Stiles goes quiet, then, chest heaving and eyes wide. This is what he’s here for, after all. To feel like he’s doing something dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Bad Things

**Author's Note:**

> Nice short palate cleanser after my BB. Big thanks to [Joana](http://joanaabroad.tumblr.com/) for her insightful beta read! The ending would be much less satisfying without her input :)

* * *

 

 

Derek rolls his hips down again, buttons of his fly catching on the seam of Stiles’ zipper. Stiles tries to say something - “fuck,” probably - but all that comes out is the breathy first syllable. He grinds his erection up into Derek’s, chasing friction that’s achingly hard to get through two layers of Levis. One of his arms is thrown around Derek’s neck, trying to drag him in closer, and he can’t seem to decide where the other one should go - grabbing at Derek’s back, tangling in his hair, or clutching his bicep. Derek’s got both arms pinned under Stiles’ shoulder blades, bracing himself on his elbows.

“Fffuh-uh-ck,” Stiles finally chokes out, a half-sob of arousal and frustration blended too thoroughly to separate. Even though they’re both already gasping for breath, he twists to lock his lips on Derek’s for a wet, open-mouthed kiss.

Derek pulls his face away, sets his teeth at the junction of Stiles’ neck and shoulder instead. The summer heat’s thick in the metal rail car, and their skin’s beaded with sweat from the desperate push-pull exertion. Derek drags his mouth up, tasting salt, and lathes his tongue over Stiles’ pulse point, just under his jaw; the kid gives a shivery jerk of his hips in return, running both hands down the length of Derek’s back.

He pulls at the hem of Derek’s shirt, dragging his long fingers over the tight muscles of his lower back before slipping his hands to Derek fly. He fumbles at the buttons, not getting anywhere. “C’mon, c’mon,” he whines.

“Nope,” Derek says into his neck, pulling one hand free to flick Stiles’ away. He nips at Stiles earlobe in revenge.

“Fuck,” Stiles moans again, squirming desperately against Derek’s crotch. “You gotta - gotta give me _something_.” He does his best to slide a hand into the back of Derek’s underwear, and gets far enough that his middle finger brushes the base of his spine.

“I am,” Derek says, reaching back to grab Stiles by the wrist. He deftly pins both of the kid’s arms above his head and grins, all teeth.

Stiles goes quiet, then, chest heaving and eyes wide. This is what he’s here for, after all. To feel like he’s doing something dangerous.

Derek squeezes just enough to make it hurt, watching Stiles’ blown pupils go a hair wider. Their eyes are still locked when he draws close and sucks on Stiles’ lower lip - and then _bites_.

Stiles moans, his eyes fluttering closed. He’s still thrusting up into Derek, rolling their hips together, and he must be aching with how long Derek’s kept him on edge like this. Derek himself is close to losing it, and he’s not even the virgin in this situation.

“Please, just…” Stiles whimpers.

“Please?” Derek mocks, interrupting. “Please, what?” He gives in, then, lets the wolf out just enough to flash his eyes and sharpen his canines, to give a rumbling predator’s growl low in his throat.

“Fuck,” Stiles curses like a prayer, and comes in his pants.

 

* * *

 

The first time Derek sees Stiles, he doesn’t really think anything of it. He’s waiting for Isaac to finish lacrosse practice, bored as hell but sticking around because Camden’s busy and _someone_ needs to give the kid a ride. The asphalt of the parking lot is radiating late summer heat and Derek is leaning on the Camaro, joylessly working his way through his second cigarette. Two kids leave the locker room before the others, and while they have to be at least juniors to be on the team, they look younger with their ungainly sticks and gym bags slung over their shoulders. Not just young; they look like the kind of good, obedient kids who don’t have a clue what goes down on Isaac’s side of the tracks, who never get the invites to Matt’s parties, who don’t know the guy who knows a guy.

One of them is talking a mile a minute, loud enough that Derek could understand the words even without supernaturally enhanced hearing. He’s waving his arms about like windmills, and Derek can’t help but notice that he’s damned pretty, lanky and snub-nosed with moles that stand out like punctuation marks on his pale skin. The other kid’s good looking, too, but not Derek’s type. He’s bobbing his head along, smiling at whatever pretty young thing is saying - and then they both notice Derek. The quieter kid looks away instantly when he realizes Derek is looking back. The louder kid’s mouth falls open in a perfect pink O and he just stares.

Derek twitches his eyebrows with a scowl, and the kid jerks his gaze away. His blush looks even more red in the afternoon light, and he scrubs a hand through his buzzed hair as he restarts his conversation with nice-guy friend. They clamber into a beat up old blue jeep as the other players start to wander out, and they’re long gone by the time Isaac saunters over.

It’s not that Derek doesn’t realize that the kid is into him. Shit, he could smell the hormonal arousal from three parking spaces away. But that’s nothing new. He knows what he looks like in the leather and aviators. Rather, he forgets about it because he knows what happens next. What happens next is that pretty young thing asks his nice-guy friend, _who was that._ And nice-guy friend tells pretty young thing exactly who Derek is, what he’s known for, and why he should be avoided.

And that’ll be the end of it. No matter how edgy the kid thinks he is, he’s not an idiot. That’s exactly what you’d have to be to not stay away from a guy like Derek.

 

* * *

 

“Back from another productive evening of dealing drugs?” Peter asks the second Derek gets back to the loft after the party - even though it’s three in the morning and there’s no reason for him to still be up.

“I don’t take their money,” Derek says into the fridge. He pulls out a coke and slams the door shut again.

“That makes it so much less disreputable,” Peter agrees amicably.

“Could have let me stay in New York.”

Peter scowls at the reminder of that argument, and out comes the false concern: “You were going off the rails, all alone in that city. You need to be with your pack.”

“You mean you need your beta,” Derek mutters. He would have stayed away, given the choice. New York hadn’t been great, but it had been different. Distracting. He’d messed around with weed enough in high school to know that drugs could give even werewolves a pleasant high, and New York made it easy to escalate to molly, to LSD, and then cocaine, heroin, anything. Bloodborne infections and overdoses were significantly less of a deterrent when your biology made you immune, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t afford a habit or two with the insurance pay outs. Anyways, there’d been more to do in New York then kill time with the local high school dropouts at the sad warehouse parties that serve as entertainment in a place like Beacon Hills.

“Derek, we’re family.” Peter’s tone is cloying, sets Derek’s teeth on edge. “I just want what’s best for you.”

The scent of a hundred other strangers is heavy on Derek’s skin, their sweat mixed with the synthetic tang of the various illegal substances that had been on offer, all of it overlaid with cigarette smoke and the stale sourness of alcohol. For all the jokes about Derek’s behavior, Peter’s never once told him directly to stop. His uncle may have been awake this whole time, waiting, but Derek’s phone didn’t buzz once all night, not even with a “where are you,” text.

“Yeah,” Derek says, throwing his jacket onto the bed Peter’s set up for him, downstairs like an afterthought. “Clearly.”

 

* * *

 

Pretty young thing is an idiot, as it turns out.

“Hey, so,” he says to Derek by way of introduction the next time they see each other in the parking lot. It seems like he cut out of practice early just to create the opportunity.

Derek blinks laconically at him.

“Yeah. Um, Matt says that you have, you know. That you have stuff?”

Derek runs his tongue over his lower lip and the kids eyes flick down as his heart beat speeds up. “Yup,” Derek confirms. It’s not really like that; he helps his friends out often enough, since he has his own connections, and yes, money occasionally changes hands when some of their friends want in, too. But he doesn’t just sell drugs to strangers for cash.

“Okay, well.” The kid shoves his hands in his back pockets for something to do. The smell of nervous sweat is rolling off him so heavily it should be off-putting. It isn’t. “I mean, I don’t have any money but…” He looks up at Derek through his eyelashes.

“If you don’t have any money, than what the hell are you doing talking to me?” Derek says, happy to play to the role the kid’s slotted him into.

The kid puffs a breath out with his cheeks. “I thought that, you know,” he says, and finishes the sentence with an incoherent hand gesture.

Derek quirks his eyebrows, trying to look intimidating rather than amused.

“Never mind,” pretty young thing says, his posture instantly going looser; he even rolls his eyes like Derek’s being purposefully thick.

Derek watches him skitter off, surprised to find that he’s curious, of all things. He’d assumed the nerves were about being in the big scary drug dealer’s presence, but with the way the tension had bled out of him at “never mind,” that hadn’t been the reason after all. Then what?

He asks Isaac, later, who the kid with the buzz cut and moles is, and gets a name: Stiles.

 

* * *

 

“Hey Laura,” Derek says. He brushes the hair off of her forehead, fingertips lingering on the puckered burns that mar half of her face. A born wolf like her should never bear lasting scars, but after this many years he’s almost used to them. She hasn’t woken up since the fire. He’s almost used to that, too.

Derek comes by to talk to her the way you might press on a bruise; to see if it still hurts. The nurses are kind, though, and after a few visits one of them - Melissa - had said that it can help people in comas to have loved ones talk to them. So Derek rambles about his life while he sits with her, just things that pop into his head. He hopes that his words register in some undamaged part of his sister’s mind. Too little too late, probably, but it’s something at least. A gesture towards righting a fraction of the wrongs he’s done.  

Visiting hours end, and Derek goes back to the loft. Nobody’s there to tell him about the distracting minutia of their lives and make his seem alright; even Peter’s out somewhere. The stupid empty sprawl of the place doesn’t feel like a home, or smell like one, and Derek ends up leaving just before midnight. He’s just going to walk to the rail car and smoke a bowl, but he texts Boyd on the way, who says that he and Erica know about a party two towns over. Derek goes to meet him and the others, tucking a couple baggies into his jacket pocket before he leaves.

Boyd slaps him on the shoulder, points to where Camden’s talking to some chick, high enough he’s bouncing manically on the balls of his feet. Erica’s glad to see him, too, especially after he presses the pills into her hand. She thanks him, smudging a quick kiss on his cheek, and prances off to take them in the bathroom. Derek smiles as he rubs the lipstick off. At least she’ll have a good night.

The music’s shit, and he’s antsy for something he can’t put a name to. He does a line in the bathroom with Camden, and it’s easier after that. Erica’s affectionate and cuddly in an easy, directionless way that doesn’t mean anything except that she’s high. It’s comforting to be touched without agenda. He and Peter are pack, but they don’t exactly hug it out. He’s not a tactile Alpha like Derek’s mom used to be.

With the bass cranked up high, it’s too loud to talk, and he doesn’t want to dance. He doesn’t need to; he can just stand in the mass of bodies and be rocked by the pulsing beat going through the crowd, and forget that life is anything else. There are enough people here to overwhelm his sense of smell, the music’s taken care of his hearing, and the blow’s fuzzed over everything else with a demanding energy that’s almost like being in control. It’s good - or if it’s not good, at least it’s what he needs.

The party’s over too soon, and everyone is turned out into the chill California night to fend for themselves. A few people go home with each other in pairs or threesomes, staving off solitude, but the thought of that turns Derek’s stomach. He’s sticky with sweat, sobering up, and antsy again. He wishes he could lose weeks as easy as he loses hours.

 

* * *

 

The next times Stiles approaches Derek, he seems like he’s got more of a script to follow.

“Hey, look, I need some extra adderall,” he says.

“That’s nice,” Derek answers.

Stiles flushes, but he doesn’t back down. “Yeah, well, do you have any?”

“I could,” Derek says, though honestly he has no idea where to get pharmaceuticals. “You got money?”

“I got a single mother who worries too much,” Stiles scoffs. “No, I don’t have money. I was thinking you could, like, think of something.” His gaze slides off Derek, and he shoves his thumb under the strap of his lacrosse bag. He shifts his weight, finally looks back at Derek, raises his eyebrows.

Derek’s startled into laughter when he finally catches the kid’s drift. “That’s what you think I want?”

“Well, shit, I don’t know,” Stiles snaps defensively. “You’re a fucking… It seems like the kind of thing that maybe happens.”

“I don’t go for that kind of payment,” Derek says wryly.

Stiles hunches his shoulders. “Fine, okay. Thanks. Sorry.”

“You wanna kiss me, you could just ask,” Derek says - softly, but the restrained volume doesn’t make his tone into anything comforting. Far from it, actually.

“Um,” Stiles says, fully flustered now. “I don’t…”

“You don’t want to?”

Stiles is staring at him like a rabbit looking at a wolf, and it’s bringing up something primal in Derek’s blood. It only takes a step to make Stiles back up into the car behind him, and Derek keeps him there with a fist loosely gripping the front of his shirt. No need to even put any muscle behind it.

Derek kisses like he made the offer, soft but filthy. It’s barely lips, mostly tongue and a bit of teeth, and Stiles tastes like something Derek could get addicted to. He pulls back, catching his breath, surprised at his own reaction. He’d only meant to tease.

“Oo-oh,” Stiles sighs. “Wow.” His hand drifts up towards his face, like he wants to touch his mouth.

Derek laughs at the bald pleasure on the kid’s face, pulling a bit at Stiles’ shirt before he lets go completely. Of the two of them, it’s clear enough that he’s not the one out of his depth.

“See you around, Stiles,” Derek says on impulse, leaning in so close their hips bump into each other. There’s no harm in flirting; Stiles got what he wanted, a taste of danger, and a kiss is as far as it’s going to go.

Still, the strangest details stick in Derek’s head: The freckle in Stiles’ left eye. His scent. The fact that, weedy as the kid looks, he’s just as tall as Derek.

 

* * *

 

He spends most of his time at the rail car, sinking into the soft, almost-clean couch that he, Isaac, Boyd and Erica had dragged in here. The three of them and Camden are the only people who come here, so it’s a decently private spot to get high. Peter knows about it, in the general sense, and could find it if he ever cared to come down and sniff around. He doesn’t care to, unsurprisingly.

Stiles showing up, on the other hand, is a surprise.

“What are you doing here?” Derek demands, feeling weirdly caught out to be discovered, pipe in hand and a bit blurry-headed with weed.

Stiles quirks an eyebrow at him, smirking nervously. “Uh, seeing you around? Word is that this is your around. So.”

 _Gotta give him points for initiative,_ Derek thinks wryly. “Look, you’re a good kid, I don’t think you really-”

Stiles laughs at him with a weary shake of his head, suddenly looking closer to Isaac’s age with the bitterness of it. “Good kid, wow, you think? Try _no_. Scott’s the boy scout. I’m the over-invested weirdo who looks up rigor mortis in the library at lunch. You know how many times I’ve almost been expelled? It’s only next to _you_ that I look like fucking bambi.”

“And you like that,” Derek says, as things click into place.

Stiles nods, jerky at first and then fast and sure. “I like that.”

“Okay,” Derek says, leaning back into the couch and spreading his legs just a little. Stiles breath catches, and he drops his backpack unceremoniously to scramble over to the couch and drop down straddling Derek’s lap. He initiates the first kiss, over-eager and sloppy and somehow perfect. Derek lets himself palm Stiles’ ass through his jeans, brings their hips flush together. Stiles moans into his mouth and Derek deepens the kiss.

They keep kissing, Stiles mewling and rocking into Derek’s lap, and Derek responding to his neediness more than he ought to. He even chases Stiles’ mouth when the kid pulls away, and it takes him a second to realize that Stiles is fighting with the hem of his shirt, trying to strip it off. Derek pulls his hands away, places them on his own hips.

Stiles whines.“C’mon, aren’t we gonna…?”

Derek scoffs. “No.”

“Fuckin’ tease,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. Derek ignores him; the kid’s still seventeen, and while Derek might not be the king of good decisions lately he’s not going to fuck up _that_ hard. If Stiles gets off on messing around with the resident bad boy that’s fine, but obviously he doesn’t want to lose his virginity to someone like Derek in an abandoned railway car where the bad kids go to get high.

Not that those kids are any older than Stiles is, of course. It’s an uncomfortable juxtaposition; Derek thinks guiltily about how he’s defended his giving drugs to Isaac and his friends; they’re old enough to know what they’re doing, he’s told Peter a million times. It’s not like he deals them the hard stuff. They’re lonely, stuck, in need of a way to escape. And he can give it to them. But if they’re old enough to make their own dangerous choices, why does that logic suddenly break down when it’s Stiles?

“I should go,” Stiles says, nearly an hour later. He slips off of the couch slowly, like he already regrets it. “My mom’s getting off shift and she’ll be worried if I’m not back.”

“Mm,” Derek hums, digging in his jacket pocket for a lighter while Stiles grabs his bag.

Stiles’ scent goes sour, for whatever reason. Derek still hasn’t figured the kid out, the strange moods and leaps of logic. But, he tells himself, it doesn’t matter. They’re hardly friends.

“Okay, well, later,” the kid mutters. Then, with a bit less attitude, “right?”

“Sure,” Derek says after a half-pause. Compared to the drugs he has stashed here, what’s a little summer fling on the scale of terrible ideas?

 

* * *

 

Derek and Stiles fall into a pattern, with Stiles swinging by the rail car every few days, after lacrosse practice or SAT tutoring or whatever it is he does. Derek has to admit after a couple weeks that he’s making up reasons to be at the rail car on the days he knows Stiles will come. It’s something new is all, this wanting someone again. This being wanted back.

They make out fully clothed, groping each other through their pants, and Derek only lets himself be a little smug the few times Stiles ends up coming from it. They talk, too, when their lips are chapped and they’re languid with a post-not-quite-coital glow. Apparently Scott is the nice-guy friend from the parking lot, and he has a new girlfriend this summer. His newfound love life is leaving Stiles at loose ends more than he’s used to: they’re only spending a few afternoons a week on GTA and Smash Brothers, rather than every single day. Derek is the back up, he guesses.

He doesn’t think to wonder much more about how Stiles’ real life accommodates the hours they waste together until it’s too late. He’s worked the kid up to a shivery, pleading mess, just the way he likes, when they’re both jerked out of the moment by a shrill buzz that sounds louder than it is against Stiles’ soft whimpers and Derek’s heavy breaths.

Stiles fumbles his phone from his pocket, cursing _how is it five?_ under his breath as he answers.

“Hey Mom,” he says, shooting a pleading, embarrassed look at Derek as he pushes himself off the couch and goes to hover by the door. “Mmhm... No. I'm sorry, I went to the library instead... yeah, but I'm falling behind in Econ and I wanted to catch up… I know, I know. I didn't want to worry you... Yeah. Okay. See you soon.”

Stiles hangs up and laughs shakily, blushing hard. “Where were we?” he asks, sitting back on Derek's knees.

“At the library?” Derek says, quirking a brow. _Don’t look so embarrassed,_ he wants to say. It’s hardly shameful to have someone waiting for you at home.

Stiles smiles fitfully. “Yeah, yeah. Not very plausible. She always believes me, anyways.” His smile flickers out, dies down into a blank hollowness. “My dad was the one who'd call me on it, y’know?” he says, not meeting Derek's eyes.  

Derek does know, intimately. He reaches up and ruffles Stiles hair, letting his hand rest there for a second before he stands and dumps him off. “Get going, she’ll worry.”

“Sorry,” Stiles blurts. “I mean it's not like... I'm not…”

Derek smirks. “Seventeen?”

“Well, yes,” Stiles admits. “But, you know,” he shakes his phone. “Not a momma’s boy.”

“Okay,” Derek agrees, even though he thinks that Stiles probably is. Honestly, he thinks it’s a little sweet. Even if a small part of him wishes Stiles would have made up another lie and stayed.

 

* * *

 

After Camden takes Boyd, Erica and Isaac to visit friends in San Diego, he and Stiles end up spending more days together than not. It isn’t always to hook up. Sometimes its for Stiles to read or do sample SATs, while Derek texts with Boyd or smokes. Stiles’ eyes kept flicking to him the first time he lit up but neither of them said anything about it. Derek doesn’t do anything harder, while they’re together at least.

On days he doesn’t see Stiles, Derek goes to see Laura. He tries to leave out the bad stuff when he talks to her, which frankly leaves him without much material. He finds himself talking about Stiles. His dad had been the sheriff before he was killed in action, and the kid feels like he has to live up to that legacy. He tries so hard to be good for his mom that the trying has started to feel like pretending. Pretending to be good, Stiles thinks, must mean he’s really _not_ good, that he’s bad. So, he must deserve bad things. Things like Derek.

Only he’s got it all wrong, Derek whispers to Laura, because sometimes pretending is exactly the right thing to do. Caring enough to smooth over the dark edges doesn’t mean you’re bad. Means the opposite, in fact. Stiles will realize eventually that he’s not messed up at all. He’s a good kid. He’s a great kid. People here might not appreciate him, but Derek knows he’ll be one of those guys that bloom the second they get out of the regimented social structure of their small town high school.

 _You’ve got a crush_ , he imagines Laura teasing him, and wastes a split second coming up with a denial to sputter back - he’s only seventeen! - before he remembers that he doesn’t need to justify anything to her. He doesn’t need to justify himself to anyone.

Derek can’t take going back to the loft after visiting hours are up, so he heads to the rail car instead. It’s not one of the days Stiles is going to be there, of course. He already knows that. Still, the place feels dingy and empty without any company, and Derek can tell that pot’s not going to dampen down the gnawing in his chest today. He digs out the last bit of the cocaine he scored from Camden’s dealer, instead. He snorts half, rides out the high, taking small hits from the rest of the bag when he feels like he might be coming down. Only after it’s nearly gone does he feel like he can face going home. Not home. To the place that passes for home, when he knows nothing will ever feel like home again.

Derek’s still buzzing with the drugs racing through his veins when he gets back to the loft. In fact, he’s high enough he almost misses it. Only at the last minute does he focus his eyes and blink in recognition at the spiral scratched into their door.

The meaning of the symbol in front of his nose sobers him up pretty fucking quick. Revenge. This, he realizes, is not good. He takes a long look at it, wondering who it could be and how scared they should make him. His stomach gives a sickening drop as he suddenly places the scent lingering in the hall. Deucalion’s Alpha pack. And that means...

He turns back around, too amped up to handle the realization of what’s coming for him and Peter, and ends up crashing back at the old rail car. When it rains it pours, he thinks, they kick you when you’re down, he thinks. He tries to count how many depressing cliches apply to his life, rather than trying to imagine how he and Peter are going to deal with this latest disaster. He sleeps on the old couch, fitfully, dreaming of flames.

When he comes back the next afternoon, though, someone’s sanded down and painted over the symbol. Not just someone - Peter. They own the fucking building, it’s not like anyone else would have access. Over breakfast, Derek gives him space to bring it up, asking how his night went. Where he was. When he got back. But his uncle just doesn’t mention the fact that Deucalion’s pack has come to town and given their notice. He doesn’t want Derek to know.

So that, Derek thinks to himself over their silent dinner, is a thing that’s happening.

 

* * *

 

The moon is a sharp white circle in the sky, and it feels like tiny hooks under Derek’s skin, dragging the wolf to the surface. He had barely starting managing his shift before the fire, and after that what control he’d had was wiped clean. It had taken him embarrassingly long, into his late teens, to even be able to go out in the world safely when the moon was out. He still tries to be alone on the fullest night, too crazy with nerves that buzz like electricity to trust his anger to keep him human.

Frustratingly, being anything but sober destroys what hard-fought control he’s built up, so he can’t in good conscience turn to his usual release. Instead he’s texting with Stiles. Easy enough to shoot off a few lines describing where he is (the rail car), what he’s wearing (those tight jeans you like, my leather jacket), what he’s not doing (stroking myself off, thinking about your mouth on me. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?). In reality he’s half hard in his pants with no real intention of doing anything about it. It’s distracting enough to type out the things they’ll never actually try, though the staccato back and forth doesn’t require too much presence of mind. It helps the hours slip by towards morning. Stiles’ replies (yeah, fuck yeah I would) lengthen out and stop at a certain point (ok ok im gonna come). Derek holds his phone loosely in his hand, staring up at the ceiling.

There are footsteps crunching outside, fast and heavy, and Derek thinks _fucking hell_ , because his friends are all out of town and he’s never made it a secret where he goes to get some space. He had never thought he needed to keep that kind of thing hidden, not from his Alpha. _Stupid_ , he cursed himself. He’s less able to defend himself on a full moon but Peter and the other Alphas will be stronger, and if that’s one of them he’s fucked, he’s _dead_.

The door rattles open and Derek snarls into full beta shift - claws out, fangs too, eyes flashing for a better look at the backlit intruder. He isn’t going to make it easy, at least.

“Oh, shit,” Stiles says, more wondering than afraid. Oh shit, indeed, Derek thinks as he shifts back, too slowly. There’s no walking this to safe ground, no playing it off like a trick of the light. Stiles knows he’s something more than human. He could bring hunters down on them, or worse: he could finally realize that he should stay away.

“You’re like, _actually_ a monster,” Stiles says, still too calm about the whole thing in Derek’s opinion. He’s not running screaming, anyways. Only that’s good, right? It should be good, but Derek weirdly feels like punching something - maybe Stiles. The kid looks like he enjoys being in on the secret too much to tattle to the Argents: A monster, awesome, even better to play the role of my next mistake. An actual monster, what an exciting new thing to try out before graduation. It’s convenient, and expected, and painful.

“What the fuck are you doing here,” Derek snaps.

Stiles blinks at him, pulls his phone out of his pocket to wave. “But you asked, right?” Derek stares blankly. “Uh, you said you were at the rail car and all this stuff about what you’d do to me if I was here and… I thought that’s what you meant.”

“Christ,” Derek mutters. The kid takes everything so literally, so _seriously_.

“Do you want me to go?” Stiles says.

"It’s three am,” Derek points out. “You have lacrosse tomorrow.”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t care. I’m here already, and weirdly more horny than I was five minutes ago? Which I didn’t think was _possible_. I’m just saying, if you wanna do that monster thing again…”

That monster thing. Derek surges into him, lets the back of Stiles’ head thwack against the metal siding of the car as he kisses him hard. He pricks Stiles’ biceps with his claws and the kid almost whimpers.

In the end, it doesn’t change anything between them. It just confirms it.

 

* * *

 

Peter’s going to kill him. It’s a matter of time, is all. Deucalion’s put the idea in his head, now, and he never even liked Derek. Well. Not after the fire, anyways. There’s no way he’ll miss out on the opportunity for more power, much less put himself in danger, just to keep Derek around. If that had been the plan, Peter would have told him about the spiral on the door right away so they could defend themselves as a pack.

It’s a sick sort of comfort, knowing all he has to do is wait. He could run (and be tracked down by hunters, put out of his misery like an animal), he could confront Peter (and be ripped to shreds by his uncle who is, after all, an Alpha) or he could stay and take what’s coming to him. And he has to admit, Stiles weighs the scales a bit towards staying.

“I’m not going to be around Beacon Hills forever,” he says. If anything, no more Derek will be a push in the right direction for Stiles. Still, they spend enough time around one another that he figures he owes the kid a heads up; If he just disappears with no warning, Stiles is exactly the kind of tenacious stupid to go poking around and getting into trouble over it.

At the moment the kid’s cross legged on the rail car floor, working on a practice test for the math portion of the SATs that he insists he needs to finish before they can, in his words, ‘do it.’ He squirms to look at Derek, on the couch, his expression hovering at not-quite suspicious. “Yeah well, me neither. God willing.”

“I’m just saying, I might go back to New York or something. Don’t be upset if I skip town, okay?”

The math book slams shut. “Wait, when? You’re planning on moving back?”

“I don’t know,” Derek says, turning his attention to taking a drag off his joint. “No plans. Just…No reason not to, either.”

He’s startled to find Stiles staring at him when he looks over again, apparently horrified enough at the suggestion that his pink mouth is gaping open in shock - cueing an incongruous reaction in Derek’s jeans.

“Are you breaking up with me?” Stiles demands.

“Bre - Are we _dating_?” Derek asks. It doesn’t even come out cruel, just confused.

Stiles shrugs, comically widening his eyes as if the answer is obvious. “Yes? Kind of?”

Derek blinks a few times. _Dating_. “You don’t even like me.”

“I like you,” Stiles says. Derek raises an eyebrow incredulously. “I do! I like being around you. I don’t have to pretend anything, and… and you put things in perspective,” Stiles explains softly, gaze directed at the floor. “Do you like me?”

“Yeah, sure,” Derek huffs, rolls onto his back to look at the ceiling. Stiles, after all, is actually likable, while Derek puts things into _perspective_. What was he expecting, anyways, to be told he was great boyfriend material? Stiles is in high school. He probably calls everything involving kissing “dating,” doesn’t have the words for anything else.

“Okay, well, you’re not leaving without telling me, then,” Stiles says, trying to make it sound like a threat rather than a plea.

“Fine,” Derek says, knowing he won’t have a choice. “You should probably find someone else to remind you life could be worse, though.”

 

* * *

 

Boyd and Erica get back from San Diego, finally, and Derek welcomes the excuse to go out again. It’s been too long, long enough that he’s starting to feel like some of what he’s been trying to leave behind him might be catching up. He’s at a party now, high on the coke that Camden brought and reveling in the mindlessness of it when he’s brought suddenly to himself at the sound of his friend’s voice, full of scorn, asking, “who's _that_?”

And who it is is Stiles, Stiles in the doorway looking lost and younger than usual under the harsh rave lighting that’s spasming around the warehouse, chasing patches of near-black shadows across the angles of his face.

Derek makes his way over to the door, losing any pleasure in the high as it’s replaced by the clawing, sticky feeling of trying to sober up faster than your body will let you.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” Derek asks, angling his shoulders towards the kid to, what, shield Stiles from the debauchery of the party? Or to keep anyone from recognizing Stiles? He realizes that the unfamiliar feeling in his chest is embarrassment, that he’s ashamed both of Stiles’ awkward buzz and ill fitting pants and of the sloppy-high antics behind him. Of the contrast. “How do you even know about this?”

“Oh my god, I’m not _that_ lame,” Stiles mumbles, like he doesn’t care if Derek can hear, and then shouts over the music, “Just wanted to see you.”

He sounds upset, and Derek automatically brings a hand to his waist. Then he drops it, surprised by the impulse to comfort.

“What's up?” he asks, warily.

Stiles shrugs, tossing his head as he rolls his eyes. “Just you know,” he says without inflection.

Derek makes an irritated noise in his throat that’s probably lost in the noise of the party. He brings his hand up again, less gently, and propels the kid back into the hall and upstairs, keeping a hand on the small of his back. At least it's lit normally.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks, and he means it to be aggressive, scornful, to show Stiles how dumb it is to come to _Derek_ to be his person for this, for the unspoken malaise of too many things gone wrong in a day when something you can't look at straight already sits heavy in your soul. He tries to make it come out like that, but it comes out a little scared, instead, because he is. Because he wants to live up to Stiles’ hope even though it’s idiotic. Derek’s not the kind of person who can do comforting. He’s high _right now_ , goddamn it. He’s stupid and awkward and he ruins everything he touches. Why can’t Stiles see that? He tries to think of what Laura would have done.

In the end he doesn’t need to. Stiles grabs the back of his neck and reels him in for a hard, toothy kiss. It’s a relief at least as much as a disappointment. This way of dealing, this losing yourself in bad behavior? Derek has it down cold.

Stiles bites at his neck, sucking hard at the skin and hissing in frustration, as always, when the marks heal. he seems to take it as a personal affront each time. Derek redirects him for a proper kiss, nipping at Stiles’ lower lip to tease his mouth open, licking into him greedily. Stiles lets out a tiny relieved sigh, and Derek hitches the kid's legs up, bracing him against the wall. He can’t talk Stiles through whatever’s wrong, but he’s good at this type of distraction at least, and he’s perfectly happy to offer it up. More fun than the shitty party downstairs, that’s certain.

A dismissive “Really?” startles Derek from leaving a bruise. “What the fuck, Derek? You’re hooking up with _that_ kid?” Camden asks from the stairwell, incredulous.

There’s a split-second of terror at being discovered, a reaction that seems completely nonsensical. Derek hasn’t given a shit what anyone thinks for years. And then, suddenly, he knows why he’s afraid, and why he’s been embarrassed, nervous and hopeful: It’s because of this kid, because of Stiles - Derek _cares_ what he thinks and what people think of him. He can’t help it. Despite his awkward innocence and childish graphic tees Derek fucking _loves_ Stiles and that means he’s vulnerable, after so much time ensuring that he would never be that stupid again. He sinks into the fear of the realization for the space of a quick puff of breath, and then it’s buried.

“What, jealous?” he says, keeping his eyes locked on Camden’s as he noses Stiles' head up again, nips at the tendon that stands out while he rolls his hips. Like Stiles is only an object to him, a means to an end.

“Jesus,” Camden spits out, turns his back and tromps back downstairs.

“Sorry, I…” Stiles says breathlessly, and Derek interrupts with another kiss, long and searing.

“Forget about it,” he tells both of them.

 

* * *

 

“Hey Laura,” Derek says. After that he’s out of things to say. Stiles has started feeling less like a bright spot and more like another bruise. Derek wants too much, he knows that now. He’s addicted to the kid’s scent, his taste, his unfathomable leaps of logic and quick-patter conversation. He wants to chase away Stiles’ bad moods, growl at people like Jackson and Camden who make the pointed jokes that put that defeated slump on his shoulders. Derek wants to fix every thing that ever made Stiles frown and make him smile instead, he wants to kiss him breathless and take him to bed and... and that’s not how they work.

How they work is Stiles comes and they make out while Derek snarls for him like the impressively bad decision he is, and Stiles leaves feeling a bit braver and a bit more mysterious. That’s all. Half their conversations already revolve around colleges on the East Coast.

Derek takes Laura’s hand and smooths his thumb over the veins on the back of her hand, feeling how they uselessly pump blood around her motionless body. He thinks about the Alpha pack, and how long it’ll be before they can get Peter to push past whatever coquettish resistance he’s offering. He thinks that maybe he’ll give Stiles a fake PO box in New York to write to, claim his phone’s broken so it won’t worry the kid when he doesn’t text back. He likes the idea of Stiles penning him long, rambling notes even after he’s gone.

For a moment he lets himself imagine actually holding one of the letters, Stiles’ sloppy handwriting and the faint scent of amusement on the page… Only he’s not just imagining the familiar scent, or the rapid heart beat, or the tell-tale squeaking tread of sneakers on linoleum. Derek sits up straight as if he’s been shocked as Stiles rounds the corner, calling “Ay, Mrs. McCall...”

He trails off as he sees Derek sitting there, still holding Laura’s hand. His plush mouth is hanging open again; clearly he wasn’t anticipating seeing Derek outside of their usual spots. Derek wasn’t, either. It’s surreal to have Stiles in the intimate space of Laura’s hospital room. He can’t think of a single thing to say.

Stiles turns his head to the side with a jerk and looks at the chart, mouths _Laura Hale?_ before he looks back at Derek, wide eyed.

Derek feels exposed, so removed from their prescribed routine. The kid must see it now, in the harsh light of the hospital among all the doctors and normal people. Derek’s not the big bad monster who can make him feel like bambi, he’s just a user with an ugly snarl of personal issues who hangs out exclusively with needy people five years younger than him who he can fool into thinking his emotional damage is cool.

“Der-” Stiles starts but Derek’s already on his feet and their shoulders barely brush as he elbows his way out into the hall and flees.

 

* * *

 

He sees Stiles next at the rail car, where it looks like he’s been camped out. “What are you doing here?” Derek asks, bracing for whatever comes next. He let his guard down, now he gets hurt; That’s how it works. At least there’s nobody else to take down with him, this time.

“We need to talk,” Stiles says back, firm.

“Are you breaking up with me?” Derek sneers, mean and dismissive to cover the genuinely panicked skip of his heart.

“Why do you do that? Why do you act like nothing matters?” Stiles demands, dragging a hand through his hair as he shoves himself off of the floor to stand. “Dude, I didn’t even know your sister was in a _coma_.” He sounds genuinely hurt.

Derek can’t think to hard about what that could mean. “I’m not staying, just swung by to grab a few things. C’mon, get going,” he says roughly when Stiles doesn’t move.

“No, hey,” Stiles protests, grabbing his shoulder as he tries to brush by. “You’re important to me!”

The words stop him more than the hand. “What?”

“Look, you’re funny, and smart, and I can focus around you because you don’t mind if I fidget. We banter about, like, fucking everything... And you let me talk about my dad. You know that nobody lets me just talk about him without looking fucking _sorry_ for me, except you? That’s… that’s worth something, okay? You act like you’re this horrible person but you never push my boundaries. With drugs, or sex or any of that. And you let me do my friggin homework and talk about my problems and I just... it’s not one way. You can tell me you have a sister in the hospital, okay? You can talk to me. Anything, all of it.”

It’s rehearsed, and awkward, and everything Derek wants. Wants and can’t have. He snaps, “Talk to you about what, college? Never been. Or do you want to know how to get your hands on some heroin? Cause I can tell you all about that.” Stiles looks away, and when their noses almost brush Derek realizes that he’s orbited too close into the kid’s space. He backs up a half step, trying to reign in his temper, too. “I am not a good choice, Stiles, you do not want this. Not really.”

“Oh, I don’t?” Stiles asks, cocking an eyebrow. “Because I’m pretty sure little Stiles…”

“You do not want me,” Derek interrupts. “You want to have a story about your edgy fling back home for when you need to seem interesting for some... some perky coed who plays field hockey. So it doesn’t seem like it’s your first time, like you’re some inexperienced virgin - even though that’s exactly what you’ll be.”

Derek’s trying to rile Stiles up, go for his soft spots… but instead of burning hotter, the anger drains from Stiles’ face to be replaced by pure confusion. In another situation the slack-jawed expression would be comical.

“But, I’m not,” Stiles says. “I’m not a virgin.”

“What?” Derek says, breath catching.

“Yeah, pretty sure you were there, actually,” Stiles says some of the anger starting to bleed back in.

Derek balks. “No, we’ve never… you didn’t even take you clothes off.” It was just messing around, that doesn’t count. Derek wasn’t going to take that from him.

It’s the wrong thing to say, clearly. Stiles’s face twists away from the mild irritation into something hurt and rageful. “Uh, you touched my dick and I came, that’s sort of what sex is, so.”

“But it isn’t… it’s not like we…” Derek protests. He takes another step back and Stiles takes two forward.

“Sorry, let me get this straight. It’s not sex because… what? Your penis didn’t go in my vagina?” the words come out bitingly sarcastic, incredulously high pitched and so loud it’s almost yelling. “My hymen is still intact so you figure it doesn’t even matter?”

“Stiles, you rubbed one out on my thigh,” Derek says in a burst of frustration. “That’s not sex, that’s not _anything_.”

The kid is almost incandescently angry, now. “Okay, wow,” he says, with a hysterical little laugh. “I am a fucking idiot, wow. This, this _thing_ with you is actually _exactly_ what it looks like.” His eyes are bright with tears and Derek is completely out of his depth. “I thought that we just didn’t talk about feelings or whatever because you’re _you_ and you don’t do conversations. But in my head there was this whole show don’t tell thing going on? Where you actually gave a shit about me?”

“Stiles,” Derek tries again. “You’re a good kid, I...”

“You know who used to call me a good kid?” Stiles shouts, his voice breaking. “My fucking dad called me a good kid, and he was wrong, too.”

Derek can’t even catch his breath. “I didn’t mean it like that, I...”

“Fuck. You,” Stiles says carefully, enunciating each cheerful syllable. And then, he leaves.

 

* * *

 

Derek wishes Peter would just hurry up and do it. What little time they do spend together any more, he feels like he’s being sized up for a coffin. He can’t be high all the time, though he’s been making a valiant attempt. But no, sometimes he needs to proceed with life as if he doesn’t know it’ll all be over soon. At the moment, that means standing in the Safeway aisle, confronting the banal futility of choosing between Jiff and Skippy.

His nose twitches, dragging him back to alertness as it picks up on a very familiar scent. _Oh, no._ Beacon Hills isn’t that large of a city, but it seems unreasonable that Derek would have to be at the store at the same time as the one person he absolutely can’t bear to see.

He forces himself to take enough of a breath to pinpoint where it’s coming from - the ice cream aisle - so he can pivot and make for the exit. He doesn’t need to eat that badly. In his hurry, though, he almost bowls into a slim brunette and her shopping cart.

“Woah, steady there,” she says, putting an arm out to pat his arm. She has a nice smile. She has a nice nose. It takes him a second too long to place it.

“Chocolate or cookies ‘n’ cream?” Stiles asks, rounding the corner with a carton of each in his hands. “Both right?” He seems like a normal, happy teenager until he sees Derek talking to the woman who must be his mother.

His face closes off, but overall he seems absurdly calm, considering the circumstances. Derek tries to keep his face under control, too, which in his case means he clenches his jaw and looks up over Claudia’s left shoulder, away from Stiles.

“Oh, you know each other?” Claudia says, looking between them, curious and a bit wary. Like she’s trying to come up with an innocent scenario for her son to be familiar with someone like Derek.

“Nah,” Stiles says brightly, setting the two cartons purposefully into the cart. “Not really.” There’s a cruel little glint in his dark whiskey eyes that matches his thin smile, and Derek wishes the floor would swallow him up.

“Friend of a friend?” his mom suggests.

“Yeah,” Stiles confirms. “Isaac’s brother knows him - this is Derek Hale. He moved from New York. You remember the name from the fire, most of his family died. Big news when I was nine! He doesn’t like to talk about it.” Derek doesn’t flinch. So Stiles had finally googled him, fine, that should have happened ages ago.

“Stiles!” Claudia chides. “I’m so sorry about him, he doesn’t always have a filter.”

“It’s fine,” Derek says woodenly. “It was a long time ago.” He can’t help but look at Stiles, then. Just to see if he still looks angry, or if there’s a bit of contrition. Or pity. Whatever it is.

Their eyes catch, but Derek can’t read the emotion on Stiles’ face at all. He still looks a little vindictive, but less sure of himself than when he’d claimed they didn’t know each other. Not quite pity, but maybe something softer than anger. Derek drags his gaze away again, back to the shelves of oatmeal. It’s useless. He can’t read Stiles because he can barely think beyond the feelings running hot in his own chest, the want and longing and hurt of knowing he fucked up the best thing he had going.

“Nice meeting you,” Derek blurts at Claudia, interrupting her offer that he should let her know if he needed any tips about the town. He leaves the store without buying anything.

 

* * *

 

Derek’s so shocked to see Stiles on his caller ID later that evening that he almost drops the phone. It’s been more than two weeks since they communicated at all. He’s at the loft, alone of course, since Peter’s always out these days. He doesn’t deserve anything from Stiles, he’s perfectly aware of that. But if Stiles thinks of what they did as his first time, Derek doesn’t want it to be bad or shameful ( _like your first time,_ his brain submits helpfully, _you’ve turned into her_ ). He wants what they had to be a better memory for Stiles than fooling around with the resident bad boy and getting his heart broken.

He can’t bring himself to say hello when he picks up, or anything else. His breath is caught in his throat, not sure if Stiles wants to cuss him out or if he’s ready to hear an apology.

Stiles speaks first, hesitant. “Derek?”

Derek lets out the breath he’d been holding. “Yes. Hi. Stiles.”

“You picked up,” Stiles says. It’s better than being cussed out, but still a ways from friendly.

“Of course,” Derek says. “You called.”

“Yeah, well,” Stiles mutters, dark and bitter. “You seemed kind of in the store like… I dunno. Like you maybe cared a bit.”

“I did. Do. I just didn’t… wasn’t thinking about how things would seem to you, I assumed you were just messing around. I didn’t think you wanted that from me.”

“If you pulled your head out of your ass for one goddamn second, you’d maybe have noticed. I straight up said you were _important_ to me.”

“I’m sorry. You’re important to me, too,” Derek admits, having just enough sense to not blurt _I love you._

Stiles sighs. “The weird thing is that I believe you. Do you believe me when I say it?” Derek bites his tongue. He believes it, maybe, but he doesn’t trust it. Stiles must guess, because he says, “I don’t know why you don’t think you get nice things. Is some kind of weird survivor’s guilt? About the fire?” At that, he sounds hesitant for the first time. “I shouldn't have thrown that in your face. Just… you should have _told_ me.”

“I should have,”  Derek admits, a little shocked to find he’s not lying.

“Damn right,” Stiles says. “And... you do deserve them. Nice things, that is. Most recent behavior notwithstanding.”

“Okay,” Derek says softly and he thinks of a world where he had a pack instead of a tragedy, even one where he just had Laura. Maybe there he wouldn’t be such a mess. Maybe he’d have something to offer a kid like Stiles. “I’m sorry,“ he adds again, for good measure. _Sorry for everything._

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says. It’s not quite forgiveness, yet, but there’s a bit of softness in his tone.

“Can I see you?” Derek says, almost needy. Despite what Stiles is saying, the vulnerability makes him feel a little nauseous _._

“Sure, but I’m at the hospital.”

Derek feels his eyebrows knit in confusion. “Visiting hours are over.”

“Snuck in,” Stiles says like it’s nothing. “I copied Mrs McCall’s key card a couple months ago. So, your sister’s like you, right? With the magic healing and everything?”

“What?” Derek says.

“So, don’t be mad, but that’s kind of why I called? And I maybe used a needle to check? It was sterile, obviously, I’m not a monster.” Derek blinks, a little surprised that Stiles would break into a hospital to stab his sister, even with a needle.

“What are you doing?” Derek says, fishing in his jacket for the keys to the Camaro. He doesn’t like the idea of Stiles alone in the hospital, edging in on things he doesn’t understand.

He hears an irritated sigh gust over the microphone. “Look, whatever your issue where you hate yourself is, you need to work on it if this is going to be a thing. And I’m only seventeen, and not the most empathetic person in the world, and I understand that I can’t fix you. But Laura, she’s your big sister. Having her back is like, step one to Derek being A-okay. Right?”

“You can’t just make her better because you want it,” Derek snaps, buckling his seatbelt and starting the car. _You can’t make me better, because I don’t deserve it._ “Look, don’t… I’m coming over there,” He sets the phone to speaker and tosses it into the cupholder as he pulls out into the main road.

“Okay, but listen: when I did the needle stick, she actually stirred. Like, something about healing it got past whatever’s keeping her under. So if a small trigger did that, what if a larger trigger would do even more?”

Derek makes a small noise in his throat. He feels like his mother had talked about something like that, jump starting the healing process with something simple - clawing your own thigh, maybe. He shakes his head, trying not to hope.

“I wanted to check with you before I did anything,” Stiles says. “Is that something that could work? It won’t make things worse, will it?”

“I don’t know,” Derek admits. “A coma like this isn’t something that born wolves usually deal with. Theoretically, it could kickstart the healing process. Maybe.”

“So like, break her arm,” Stiles says, matter of fact, and for the first time Derek kind of gets why Stiles doesn’t think of himself as a good kid.

“Don’t do anything until I get there,” Derek orders. There’s no reply, though. “Stiles?”

“Shh, I think I heard a noise,” the kid whispers. “Hold on.”

“What is it?” Derek asks, quietly even though that can’t matter through the phone. He turns the corner, and the hospital comes into view.

“Oh, weird. It’s your uncle,” Stiles says. “I recognize him from the article. It’s just you two now, right?”

Derek’s stomach gives a sickening lurch. Yes, he’s always thought of the two of them as the last ones standing, but that’s not quite right, is it? He’s been so morosely focused on his own death he didn’t even think that he’s the only beta Peter has, not even the easiest target. Peter never visits Laura, he’s let Derek know in no uncertain terms that he doesn’t think she can hear them or that she’ll get better.

If Peter’s there after hours, there is only one thing he wants, and Stiles… Stiles is in the way of it.

“Stiles, you need to get out of there,” Derek says, snatching the phone to his face as if being louder will make Stiles listen to him for once. He breaks hard as he swerves into the hospital parking lot and jerks the wheel one-handed, practically drifting the Camaro into the first empty spot. “Stiles?” There’s a clatter, and the phone goes dead. Derek drops his own phone on the pavement and starts sprinting.

 

* * *

 

When he tumbles into the hall, Stiles is backed up in a corner and Peter’s talking to him, too low for Derek to hear, and apparently scenting him, too. It hits Derek somewhere primal; he snarls, shifting into full beta form. That gets his uncle’s attention.

“Derek,” Peter says as he turns, so polite it’s almost prim. He flicks a lazy hand back to where Stiles has slid down to the floor.  “Nice to finally meet what’s keeping you so distracted.” Derek takes an involuntary step forward, like a marionette. He can’t smell any blood, though, just fear. That’s fine, so long as Stiles isn’t hurt. Peter smiles. “What a pretty little toy you found.”

The tone sets off a low growl in Derek’s throat, but he can’t raise to the bait even if his wolf is howling for him to. “Deucalion wants you to kill helpless teenagers, now, too?” he spits. “Doesn’t seem like much of a challenge.”

“Ah, so you know about that,” Peter says, gloating. Stiles is forgotten for the moment, at least, scooting away on the floor. “I should thank you for coming here, actually. It’ll be so much easier to take care of both my betas at once.”

“You’d really kill Laura?”

“And you,” Peter confirms. “It wouldn’t even keep me up at night. I’d be finally be rid of this farce, this ridiculous, limping, pathetic excuse for a pack.” The light in his eyes is slightly crazed, and Derek’s not sure if it’s Deucalion’s influence or if it has always been there.

Derek sees him tense to attack, and he leaps first. Not fast enough. Peter turns on him, smashing his body back into the hospital wall. It takes a moment to get his bearings back and stand, and then Peter’s clawing at him, roaring, and it’s all he can do to block the slices with his forearms. There’s no chance to counter-attack. Derek stumbles, and Peter grabs him, tosses him back like he weighs nothing. Even as he’s skidding across the floor, his uncle leaps after him, using Alpha strength to pin him helpless on his back.

This is it, the end, and he just hopes that Stiles had the presence of mind to leave and isn’t going to see it. He tenses, bracing for the final blow - only a set of claws slashes into Peter’s arm before it can come down, sending a spurt of hot blood over him instead. Peter turns, snarling, and they both see her at the same time. Laura.

She tackles Peter and slashes again, vicious smile on her face, a series of quick attacks before Peter can barely react. The element of surprise gave her the edge she needed; even as Derek watches, his uncle’s throat tears under Laura’s claws. He goes limp and the red Alpha glow sparks in his sister’s eyes. It hurts to see, even though it probably shouldn’t. Peter wasn’t good, Derek knows, but he used to be. It seems unfair to forget that he used to be a good uncle.

“The healing trigger thing works, in case you were wondering,” Stiles says from the doorway, shaky but okay. “You’re welcome.”

Derek has to laugh at his tone, despite the circumstances. It’s an unsteady thing, but joyful.

Laura’s hands are bloody, and she’s weaving a bit on her feet as she walks over to where Derek is laying and gives him a hand up. They almost overbalance as he trips to his feet, and then he’s falling into her, hunching to tuck his head under her chin even though he’s got a good six inches on her. He gasps in a lungful of her scent, and the comforting loved-alpha-sister smell feels like coming home. She presses her cheek to the top of his head, and her arms wrap around him, a little trembly with the healing and her change to Alpha. “I got you, Der,” she murmurs. Derek hugs her even more tightly.

Stiles clears his throat. “Um, I can go.”

“Oh, no,” Laura says appraising, moving her head to look over at him. “No, you stay. You must be _Stiles_. Derek talks about you all the time.”

“He talks about me?” Stiles says, in a small, surprised voice.

“All the time,” Laura says in a knowing tone that makes Derek flush like he’s thirteen again. Laura laughs, slinging her arm around his neck, and then Stiles is laughing, too, and they’re all laughing even though Peter’s dead and even though that’s the least of their problems: His body will need to be take care of, Laura’s mysterious recovery explained without pinging any hunter’s radars, plus the Alpha pack’s still around… there are a million other things wrong beyond that, even. Derek is perfectly aware of every one of them.

The difference is, with Laura manhandling Stiles into a stumbling, awkward pack hug, he finally sees that there’s plenty right, too.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on Tumblr as [TroubleIwant](http://troubleiwant.tumblr.com/) for drabbles, Sterek reblogs, general flailing, and a disappointing amount of whining about how hard writing is.


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